


the first step to any kidnapping (is to have fun and be yourself)

by notthebees



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, Low Chaos (Dishonored), corvo is Bad at Parties and generally a social disaster, look it's not that serious, no one dies and lydia drinks bubbly, obviously noncanonical, thank god lydia is not only excellent at parties but a good partner in petty crime to boot, there's a fancy party and a good time is had by all (except for corvo who is too stressed for fun)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-09-02 06:45:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8654827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notthebees/pseuds/notthebees
Summary: Corvo is assigned a date to Lady Boyle's party for tactical reasons. Lydia dresses up and gets a fun night out; Corvo does a lot of stress-sweating.  A few canonical details tweaked.





	

It was decided, as most things these days seemed to be, without consulting Corvo much at all. He was summoned mid-morning from his attic room down to the bar where the three men were waiting for him, and they asked him—or rather, told him—about the change in plans.

“Here’s the thing, Corvo,” began Havelock in that brusque, businesslike tone of his, as if he was Corvo’s commanding officer. Corvo swallowed the slight taste of resentment that had begun to creep up in recent days, bitter at the back of his throat, when they’d use that tone with him. “We’ve been talking it over,” he tilted his head to acknowledge Pendleton and Martin, “and we think you ought not to go to the Boyles’ alone tonight.”

This was new. “Go on.”

 “Well, it’s going to be quite crowded there tonight….”

 “Mmm,” Corvo managed with only a touch of irony.

 “...Because of the party, you know.”

 “I know.”

 “So we were thinking, rather than burst through the door, sword swinging, chopping up all the guests and ruining Lady Boyle’s party—”

 “Although I assure you, Corvo, there’s little that would make me happier,” Pendleton cut in.

 “I’m not really in the habit of mass murder,” Corvo said dryly.

“Rather than—” Havelock started again. 

“Though you'd prefer not to address the party-ruining?” Martin laughed.

"RATHER THAN cause a brouhaha—"

 Corvo couldn't help himself. "I've never caused a brouhaha. Not since we started this."

Havelock exhaled furiously through his nose and steepled his fingers. "Rather than risk a _fuss_ ," he paused to make sure the others were finished, "we've decided that, well, the boldest measures are the safest, so to speak. You should attend the party as a guest, accompanied by one of our number, who might be able to make things easier for you—listen for gossip, you know, maybe even cause a distraction if necessary."

“Why not go tomorrow night—any _other_ night — when the house _isn’t_ full of guests?”

“I really think it should be tonight,” Pendleton clipped the moment the words were out of Corvo’s mouth.

“...Why?”

“It just...makes tactical sense.” Pendleton looked to Havelock, as if for reassurance. “Also I have a message for you to deliver to someone I know will be there tonight, and it would simply be inconvenient for you to have to make two trips.”

 _Right._ “Right." 

There was an awkward lull. Havelock clapped his hands together. “Well, that settles it! We knew you’d see the good sense in it, Corvo." 

“Mmm.”

“And! You already have an invitation, which entitles you to bring a guest.”

“Which of you, then?”

“Hm?” A split second, and then the realization dawned upon Havelock’s face. “Oh, hah hah, actually, Corvo, none of us will be accompanying you. Simply too risky—you understand. No, we had someone else in mind.”

Corvo frowned for the first time, letting his curiosity betray him. “ _Who?_ ”

“YOU CAN COME IN NOW, LYDIA,” Havelock shouted toward the stairwell.

“Ah—” Corvo stammered, shaking his head frantically.

Lydia emerged from around the wall and sauntered into the bar, smile impossibly wide. “Lord Attano,” she nudged his shoulder coquettishly, “I’d be _honored_ to be your guest.”

* * *

 

Not half an hour prior Corvo had been up in his attic, doing his best to catch some sleep in preparation for the long night ahead of him, and now he was sitting on the edge of his bed, fidgeting uncomfortably, while Lydia and Cecelia went to work with scissors and thread on a lady’s dress suit on his floor.  When the topic of costume had arisen, the men below had assured Corvo that Piero was more than up to the task of crafting a mask for Lydia (though Piero himself was apparently disappointed to be assigned a project that couldn't kill anyone, and Lydia seemed concerned by the prospect herself), and Samuel had already taken Pendleton to and from his manor, where the lord had managed to extract an old matching set of women’s trousers and jacket from a trunk in storage. They were a bit musty, and at least two decades out of fashion, but the two maids had cheerfully burst into Corvo’s room anyway with their sewing supplies, giving Corvo a chance to talk with Lydia while they worked.

“The fit is the most important thing,” Lydia told him. “You can get away wearing almost anything so long as it fits you well. A few alterations here and there, and it will look completely presentable...maybe a bit Tyvian, even. Cecelia and I will have it ready in time, don’t you worry, Corvo.”

“I...it hadn’t even crossed my mind to worry about that, Lydia,” Corvo said wearily.

“If we slashed the sleeves here and here, we could sew in a bit of color beneath them,” offered Cecelia through a mouth full of pins. Her eyes widened with a sudden spark of inspiration. “I wonder if Lord Pendleton would let us cut up one of his silk cravats. Or his bed sheet.”

“Lord Pendleton’s the least of your problems, girl; it’s Wallace you have to worry about,” Lydia smirked. “I think I’ve got an old blouse—red maybe, or magenta—buried somewhere in my trunk. Go see if you can find it, would you? We can slice that up instead.”

Cecelia left. Corvo watched Lydia sew in silence for a minute. She was so sure of this, all of it, the whole idea, whereas Corvo was overwhelmed, drowning in innumerable risks, possible missteps, and contingency plans.

_“Two of us means twice the risk,” Corvo had addressed them all downstairs in the bar, trying to make them understand._

_Lydia was the one who spoke up. “You’re the one being hunted by the law. If I get caught, I’m a nobody who snuck in on a dare, and you’re gone by the time anyone thinks to look for you too. But I’m not going to get caught.”_

_“You’re very confident.”_

_Lydia smiled coyly. “I’ve never been caught.”_

_“You hear her, Corvo?” Havelock beamed. “Never been caught. The woman knows what she’s about._ ”

One day, Corvo thought, he really should ask how _exactly_ Lydia and Havelock became acquainted.

“Are you wearing that?” came Lydia’s voice, jolting him out of his reverie.

“Hm?”

“To the party. Is that what you’re wearing?” Corvo shrugged defensively. “They’ll be all abuzz over you. It’s bold. I like that in a man.”

“Um...what sort of mask is Piero making for you?” Corvo asked, eager to change the subject.

Lydia wrinkled her nose. “I don’t know, but I spoke to him earlier; told him if he makes me something as ghastly as yours—no offense, Corvo—then by the Void I would wear it, and its face would be the last thing he saw. I’d hope for something pretty, but...well, can you imagine Piero _making_ something pretty? I doubt he even knows the meaning of the word.”

Corvo snorted in agreement before the worry regained its hold on him.

“This is a bad idea,” he said at last, half to himself.

“Only if it fails,” Lydia said evenly. “If it works, it’s brilliant in a mad sort of way. The Admiral trying to seize control of the navy—that was a bad idea. But springing you from prison, heading alone into the Abbey and the Cat...that was all pretty brilliant, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t know.”

They lapsed into silence again. Cecelia returned with an old shirt of Lydia’s, well-made if a bit threadbare, and after she departed again, Lydia began cutting it apart and laying out the useful bits. Corvo sat on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands, grinding his teeth and bouncing one leg like a piston. Eventually Lydia looked up.

“Don’t...take this the wrong way, Lord Attano,” she began, evidently taking great care to tread gingerly. “But...you’re not going to act like...this,” she gestured vaguely at his entire person, “at the party, are you?”

“What?”

“Well...again, don’t take this the wrong way”—Corvo wondered how exactly he _was_ meant to take it — “But you don’t really...talk to people? I just mean, whenever the Admiral and Lord Pendleton and Overseer Martin talk to you, it’s like they talk _at_ you, not to you. Also you hold yourself like this the whole time.” She hunched her shoulders and grimaced.

Mildly uncomfortable, Corvo hunched his shoulders and grimaced.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with that” rushed Lydia. “I’m sure that makes for quite an imposing Lord Protector. I’m just trying to imagine you in a ballroom with fifty Lord Pendletons in their fine suits, and you in your death mask standing alone with a champagne in your hand.” She giggled. “Pardon, milord.”

 _Standing alone?_ “You think they won’t want to talk to me?” He wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or insulted.

“Oh, they will. You’ll be quite the sensation. There’s nothing aristocrats love more than the potential for scandal. Well, except for maybe the scandal itself. But you know that.”

“How do _you_ know that?”

“I’ve been around noble types.” Lydia held up the jacket to examine her handiwork on the sleeves. “They come here, or they used to. Behaved themselves, for the most part. And I’ve been around them in their own territory too, when they’re not dressed common and trying to blend in and they don’t have to behave. Maybe that’s why you’re afraid to talk to them.”

“I’m not—what?”

“They always had to behave for you before.”

Corvo pondered that for a moment.  “So, if they pry—”

“—They will—”

“—What do I do? Should I, you know, talk to them? Lie?”

Lydia gave him a pitying look. “Just pretend you’re Tyvian.”

“Shouldn’t I be asking Lord Pendleton for _his_ counsel on dealings with other lords?”

Lydia stared. “By the Void, no.”

Corvo stared back.

“We’ll be dealing with aristocrats, Corvo.”

“ _He’s_ an aristocrat.”

 _“Exactly_. We’ll get the talking points from him—a bit of gossip, the good stuff—and then we’ll go to the Boyles’ home and do our best not to make a Lord Treavor Pendleton out of ourselves.”

Corvo must have looked uncertain, because Lydia glanced at him and went on. “Listen, Corvo, I’ll tell you a secret: I’ve been to a number of these parties. And I’ve been a mild success at every one—a mild success being, obviously, ten times better than a flop, and a hundred times better than a hit. A mild success goes to a party, is charming enough to be liked and dull enough not to draw curiosity, and then they leave with whatever they came for and no one thinks about them again. Pendleton will tell you how to be a hit; me, you can trust to be excellent company, promptly forgotten.”

Corvo had a hard time believing that anyone would promptly forget a conversation with Lydia. “...I still ought to speak with him.”

Lydia shrugged. “Good idea, I suppose. If you see Wallace, let me know. I have to swan about in my dress clothes where I know he’ll see me. He’ll have a stroke.”

It had been so long since Corvo had laughed that he stifled it into a pained choking sound before even realizing what it was.

“Oh, and try to relax, Corvo. We’re going to a party.”

“We’re going to eliminate Burrows’s mistress.”

  
“Well,” Lydia grinned, “Either way, I intend to enjoy myself.”


End file.
